Worth the Wound
by Sidney Hummel
Summary: Told from Sherlock's perspective, a look at what happens if John were injured during Moriarty's game. Suggestions about the title are welcome.
1. Chapter 1

It is Friday evening, already dark. The dry hardwood floor creaks beneath my weight. Rain patters against the windows. John drew the drapes an hour ago. Went straight to the tele when he came home from the hospital. Must be entertained when he doesn't feel right. He never feels right when it rains.

I am standing in the kitchen. Steaming chemicals fog my protective eyewear. The light above me is quivering, occasionally flickering. It disturbs me.

"John." With vague awareness I hear my voice utter words. "Add light bulbs to the list. This lamp will be out by next Wednesday."

I don't have to look over to know he turns to face me with a slightly startled look. My voice startles him when it starts up after a long stop. "Hm? Sorry."

So I repeat myself. No, I don't remember the last time I spoke to him. Not even a 'goodnight'. He seems to be used to it by now, doesn't complain. This case—and many others, respectively—plague me. Almost taken care of. Waiting for this solution to prove the suspect's alibi wrong. A lie. Fabrication.

The canned laughter of John's tele program and the soft thud of feet on the stairs. John is completely unaware of it. My focus remains on my beakers, but I hear the knock on the door.

"No."

John is already pushing himself out of the chair. "What?"

"It's Mycroft. Leave him out there."

He frowns at me; I can feel it. Of course he lets Mycroft in. I watch the liquids move, colors change, temperature. Soft sound of bubbles bursting.

His presence is as swollen and smug as his face. He doesn't greet John properly, doesn't ask about work or offer to shake his hand. Merely struts towards me, leaving John to shut the door.

"Must be pressing for you to forget your manners," I say with bite.

It takes him a moment to remember himself. "My apologies, John." He offers his hand at last. John takes it, now standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

"It's alright, Mycroft."

I look up and meet John's eyes with a pointed expression. _It's not alright._ Turn back to my chemicals. "Go on."

He folds one hand into his pocket. The other rests on his umbrella like a cane. "There was a body found on my property this morning." Now he gives me several long moments to consider the bait. Meantime he reads my face, my posture, to see if I will take it.

Still not looking at him. "You're taking it as a personal threat when it is most likely a random occurrence. You would hand it to the proper authority, but you're hoping I can handle it sooner, so you can erase it before it becomes a scandal. I am over pulling favors for you, Mycroft. I will not engage."

Another snip of bait will come next. It's obvious there's more—he is rocking slowly on his heels. Canned laughter again, then the shrill theme music of the program. John turns back briefly, as though he will regain what he missed. The timer goes off and I remove the beaker from the flame, setting a different beaker on.

"Here is the note left on the body." He holds it forward. I take it and remove my eyewear long enough to read it. Postcard, store bought, never stamped or sent. Simply written on in black ink. The front of the post card shows a photograph of the National Theatre. Dull. I hold the note out for Mycroft to take. John takes it instead, reads it and quips, "Hang on—what's this XOXO? _Tell your brother I send my regards XOXO_"

Mycroft and I chuckle simultaneously. I finally turn towards them.

"Irene Adler is dead."

Our laughter is harder now.

John gives me a warning look.

I say, "Moriarty is trying to communicate with me. Could have just used the phone, but he prefers dramatics. Games…" Adjust the flame, pour out a bit of the now cooled solution. "Probably trying to flatter me."

John folds his arms across his chest. It's less discreet than he imagines. The maroon jumper hugs his shoulders and biceps and the collar of the plaid shirt underneath peeks out.

Mycroft smiles. "I'll give you tonight to ruminate. But I'm certain I'll see you in the morning."He turns. "Good night, John."

"Wait."

He looks at me.

"Leave the postcard with us."

Mycroft nods and hands John the card.

"And do skip the ice cream parlor on the way home. The rain does not justify an extra dessert."

The flat door closes and I hear his steps fade away. I go about my chemicals and notice that John has muted the television. Makes the rain sound harder. Severe.

"Yes?"

"He's onto you again."

"Man of his word."

"Don't take the case."

"Why not?"

"It's—"

"Danger doesn't apply, neither does threat. They never do."

He sighs. "Look, you've got a lot on right now. Taking this—something might go wrong."

I step away from the chemicals and towards him. Tower over him, look down into his soft eyes. Speak low into the air. "There is always the possibility that things will go wrong. Always. That doesn't change the facts, which are all I'm interested in. Right now, the facts are this card," I take it from his hand and wave it in the air, "and the body that's on Mycroft's property."

"I can't argue with you."

Why is he so edgy about this? We frequently get cases that speak to me in a personal manner—they never bother him. Something about Moriarty turns his stomach, puts him ill at ease. The one time he wishes I would turn away from the presented opportunity of adventure is the one time it is most exciting for me.

"You'll come with me to see the body, I presume? We can stop at the diner on the way. Or after. Whichever suits your mood."

He licks his lips, swallows in a quick motion and walks away. "If you want me there, yes."

"I always want you there."

He pauses at the doorway, takes in that reassurance. "Right." It satisfies him when I say things like that. I've yet to exact why.


	2. Chapter 2

CH.2

"Tell me what you notice, John."

The morning air chills him but I find it tolerable. He is bound in his black jacket, the one with the asymmetrical patches. I watch closely as he leans over, moves, squats, reaches out and touches the body. I watch the way the denim hugs the curve of his upper thigh.

"Hm."

"What is it?" Even though I already know.

"Looks like," his voice is still soft this early in the morning. Almost quiet. I have to move in to hear, "the victim was strangled first and _then _shot."

"Yes."

"But there's a chemical burn there, under the nose."

"I see."

"Why would the killer try three different things? One would have been enough."

I fold my hands behind my back. Company is approaching, I sense it before John does. As they draw in through the trees the morning grey reveals their faces. Mycroft looks pleasantly unbothered. Lestrade looks far more concerned than he needs to be—as usual. He is carrying a cup of coffee from a corner shop. It smells fake.

"I trust you and John have gleaned a plethora of information thus far."

We had showed up twenty minutes earlier, stopped briefly at the house to ask about the specific location of the body—no sense wasting time. John and I could do fine on our own, we didn't need the presence of others to cloud our judgments. We had already completely surveyed the area, taking in all the clues Moriarty had left for us. Although I knew right away it wasn't Moriarty who had killed or deposited the body here.

"Brother, you needn't look at me with such disdain. I have done you a service in bringing this to your attention."

"He would have gotten ahold of me otherwise, as I've stated before."

"Yes, but he chose this first. What do you make of it?"

I made eye contact with him for a brief moment. Don't need to answer. Lestrade began to ask John questions, and in his foolish kindness he offered information. I wish he wouldn't, but he can't help himself. He sees Lestrade as an ally. I see Lestrade as a necessary stepping stone.

Back in the flat, we debrief privately. He makes us tea and makes himself a sandwich. I cannot eat until I have further pressed this case. John glances at my figure. The past few months have seen successive cases that have weighed me for weeks at a time. I barely eat or sleep, and I've indulged in cocaine and cigarettes on more than one occasion. He doesn't understand, but he notices. And it makes him feel something, though I don't know what. I would ask him to explain it, but I fear the answer.

We sit down across from each other and sip from our cups like gentlemen, one leg crossed over the other. He listens patiently as I unload every detail to him and iterate my theory. I recall the moment at which Jim Moriarty told us in the pool room that he doesn't like to get his hands dirty. That further proves my point that this was not his handiwork. But the postcard _was _written in his hand. I compared it to that scrap on which he wrote his then mobile number at the hospital. Same scrawl. He sent a messenger. A messenger who knows how to kill, yet elected to let his work look sloppy. Novice at best.

I ask John, "Who do you know that could kill with such expertise they could _make _a kill look amateur on purpose?"

"'s no easy task." He thinks, takes a few bites of his sandwich. I watch the muscles in his jaw move rhythmically. I watch his eyes stray, as if pulling ideas from the walls. "But Jim knows a lot of other people like himself. Criminals, people who know how to be quick and clean."

"Yes, but this was purposefully unclean."

"Well he wouldn't be stupid enough to think we'd buy into it. Would he?"

"He knows we've picked up on it. No, John, _think_. What kind of person would be able to manipulate their kills? Not a criminal, somebody else. Someone with poise. You saw the way the body was positioned, handled. The way the note wasn't damaged at all. The area in the woods—we found a cigarette butt and a beer bottle. He's familiar with kills. So familiar he can enjoy himself on the job and still execute the mission perfectly."

"What if it was the victim's bottle?"

"Couldn't have been. Like you said, the victim was dead before they were put on site. Somehow Mycroft's groundskeepers completely missed the action. And it happened in broad daylight."

"Stealth."

"Precisely."

"A military man, perhaps?"

I spring out of my chair, set my cup down on the mantle and begin to pace. "A _military man_. That fits! Experience, comfort—well, maybe not comfort, but he no longer cares. His apathy comes across as comfort. His use of substances to support his work, yes." I feel John's eyes beat upon me as I stop completely, speak low. "We have much work to do, John. This afternoon you'll have to call your people and inquire about a list—a list of all the soldiers with questionable backgrounds who have either left the military or been discharged in the past… let's say three years."

John gets up and jots something down on a scratch pad at the desk. "You think it could be a criminal, then? Questionable background?"

"Not criminal—but who else would work for a criminal consultant than someone who can no longer use their talents in an effective manner? No, he was either kicked out or forced to resign. I'm nearly certain you'll find something if you just look."

"Right. And what will you be doing?"

"I'll be going to the National Theatre. There's bound to be another message waiting. Can't waste time."

Suddenly John is looking up at me, inches away. "No, we can't." I feel an energy, a pull. A need to reach out and wrap my fingers about his arm. His face is keen, sharp. His thin lips and short lashes. A boy in a man's body. Something ordinary becomes completely fascinating, and I don't allow myself to react. A sigh from him tells me he feels a pull as well. Why else would he breath out in frustration? He wants something from me. He puts his hand on my wrist, gently. "I won't be with you this afternoon. Be careful."

"Like I need you to protect me." I turn and walk away.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock?"

It turns my guts this time. The way he says it, the soft way that he says it. Shar-luk. He touched my wrist earlier, intimately. I respond to his call the way a dog responds to a whistle.

"Look at this." He walks over to where I am in the kitchen, studying the artifacts I found at the theatre. Presents to me his laptop, where he is researching all the men on the list of military names. "Sebastian Moran."

I read over the information on the screen. "Sniper."

"Expert."

"Find out everything you can about him. Is there contact information?"

"None here."

"Hm."

"I'll keep looking."

I go back to my artifacts and he walks off. Outside of the theatre I found more of the same cigarette filters. I collected them, and am about to begin the chemical process. See if I can strip fingerprints, saliva. The pressed center of the filter tells me the man holds his cigarettes between his thumb and forefinger. Doesn't care about the integrity of the cigarette; he could be a rogue. I had searched for footprints, but there was no telltale sign.

Yes, there was another note. This time it was tucked under a prop backstage, familiar scrawl set on a program. The show seems irrelevant—Cinderella, a fairy tale—but the note isn't. Dear Reichenbach Hero, We're getting closer to the final act. You will regret having shown your hand. XOXO

When did I show him my hand? I've read the note a hundred times now and I can't—

"Oh."

John calls from the other room. "What is it?"

It's you, I think. But I won't say it aloud. He hasn't seen the note, and now I will refuse to show him. Back in the pool room John and I both showed our hands. He tried to save me, and I tried to protect him. Jim knew it affected me—seeing John in a compromising position. Never again.

If only he had something I could threaten to take from him.

By nightfall John has accumulated several possible contact numbers as well as residential addresses. Feeling completely restless I grab the list, swing on my coat and leap down the stairs. As I am hailing a cab John appears beside me. I see him tucking something into his coat. His gun.

The cab ride is silent, the way I need it to be. We are both at the crossroads of ease and awareness. If he weren't at ease, he would talk, in which case I would have taken the first cab alone.

One after the other the addresses prove meaningless. Back in the cab I try several of the phone numbers. All of them disconnected. A few of the buildings we stop at are misleading—no ex-military man could ever afford to live in those buildings. I am beginning to feel assured that we have our man. Have him, I say. We won't have him until we have him, no, but now we're on his scent.

On the ride to the last flat on our list I mutter, "No innocent man would ensure that someone looking for him would be led this far astray. Most people would have stopped looking by the third false phone number, the third false address. Here we have a list of every place this man has lived—supposedly—for the past twenty years. And none of it is accurate. I'm not even convinced he is capable of setting this up himself."

"You think he had help?"

I am silent for a minute.

John adds, "Maybe Moriarty set it up so that he can't be found. Knew that you would try and try again until you found a true lead."

I nod and finally we are at the last flat.

Someone answers the door. I put on my kindest voice, softest face, and inquire about the man I claim to have grown up with.

The middle-aged woman smiles ruefully. "I'm sorry to say, but Moran… he hasn't lived here in quite some time. Since before he left for the war, I believe. Last I heard he'd come back a mess." Her voice drops to a whisper, as though guilty for sharing with us. "I heard that he was given the boot, came back and spent all his money on liquor and went homeless."

"Homeless."

"Yes. What a shame. Boy had a lot of talent before he left."

"He certainly did."

"And he was so handsome."

"Remind me again?"

"What?"

"Remind me again what he looked like then, I haven't seen him since grade school."

"Well, you probably knew him when he was just a scrawny, lanky thing. I've been told he grew into his size. But no one could forget the big green eyes, the light blonde hair. His smile. He had a lovely smile."

I chuckle, offer some agreement. Proof that I remember. We thank her for her time and get back into the cab.

"Did you see any photographs of the man she described?"

"Yes, I did. Just one. I've bookmarked the links on my computer, I'll show you when we get home."

A grunt is my only response.

John does not disappoint me. He shows me his proof and it helps. Now I have a real mental image. I search my mind. Have I seen the face before? During the games I've played with Moriarty, have I seen any such eyes, nose, hair, jawline? Nothing comes up. How long has this man been working for Moriarty? If he truly was homeless, then…

"Come on. It's late." I feel John at my side. I am standing in the kitchen, reading the results from the chemical test on the cigarette filters. "You haven't slept or eaten, you need rest."

"I will be the judge of that."

He frowns at me, furrows his brow. Sounds angry when he speaks. "While I'm gone tomorrow, you're going to go running about the city looking for this man, you're going to be meeting up with all your homeless network and you could be putting yourself into risky situations that I will have no control over."

The corner of my mouth curls in response. He knows me.

"If you're going to do all of that while I'm at the hospital, you'd better rest up first."

"You don't trust my body's capability of carrying me through whatever obstacles I meet."

"No, I—"

"Why?"

His brow unfurrows and he looks at me, afraid. I cock my head, I don't understand this sudden change.

"I don't like it when you go off without me." His eyes leave me.

"Yes, you've made that clear. But why? I survived years without you, just like this."

"You survived without me." He gives a weak laugh and then looks back, my eyes hold him. "You might think it selfish, and that's fine. But if anything happened to you while I wasn't there to—to do anything, I would never be able to forgive myself."

"I'm not your responsibility."

"No, you're my life."

My heart thuds against my ribs. I must seem stunned, because he pats me on the shoulder and says, "Please get some sleep tonight." Then he retreats to his bedroom.

Now I won't be able to sleep at all.


	4. Chapter 4

I wake up in John's chair, under his throw, my face resting upon the flag pillow. Sometime in the early hours I settled here, pacified by his scent. As I look around there is the smell of coffee and biscuits, daylight peeking in through the drapes. He walks into the room and switches on the tele. Morning habit of listening to the news.

"Oh, you're up."

He saw me out here and left me asleep. Unperturbed by the fact that, not only am I not in my room, but I slept in his armchair. I wonder what he thinks it means? This is the first time it's happened, and even upon waking I can't recall what pulled me to it.

It takes me a moment to draw myself to a stand, still fully dressed in what I wore yesterday. He's back in the kitchen now, fixing a plate for himself. By the time I make it in there he is fixing a plate for me.

"I'm not—"

"Take it." He pushes the plate into my hands and I have no choice. I bite into the biscuit, which he has spread with blackberry jam, and set the plate on the counter. He looks satisfied and I watch him move into the other room, sit in the armchair I warmed for him. I follow, carefully absorbing his morning routine, though I've encountered it hundreds of times. The way his feet—in wool socks—look against the floor. The hair at the nape of his neck, which curls if he sweats at night. During a spell of chill air like this, he's only sweating in his sleep because of nightmares. Without realizing it I reach out and touch it. Soft, grainy blonde curl.

He turns and looks up at me, startled. "You alright?"

I finish the last of the biscuit and say with my mouth half-full, "What were they about?"

"What was what about?"

A reporter reviews today's weather. Sunny, strong wind. Possibility of snow this evening. "Your nightmares. Last night."

John thinks for a minute. The slightly embarrassed look tells me he assumes he was yelling or crying out in his sleep. I smile forcefully and wait until he responds, "It was you, the bombs were strapped to you and I found you in the pool room. I couldn't—" He stops for a full thirty seconds. "I couldn't convince him to let you go."

I realize I'm still fingering the curl and I pull my hand away. "Sorry."

After John leaves for work I throw my room apart and find the bag of cocaine. I set out two thick lines on top of my dresser and suck them up like a good drink. My face feels numb and I feel alive in the way I need to feel alive. My chest opens up and my body feels sharp like a weapon. I shower and dress myself as though I am due at the opera. Polished shoes, a fresh pack of smokes and the collar turned up on my coat. John hid his gun again, but I find it under his bed and take it with me when I leave.

Sometime in the evening John calls me. "Where are you?"

It takes me a few moments to calculate the answer. "Nearing the Cat's Eye Pub. It's highly possible he frequents there."

"Should I meet you?"

I am walking down the dim street. Dark grey falls all around, a flurry of flakes about me. The street lamps come on. The pub is well lit at the corner. I am smoking a cigarette. Did a few more lines in the cab on the way here. Feeling optimistic.

"No. My own."

"When will you be home, then?"

"Not sure. This could prove very valuable, or it could lead me somewhere else."

For nearly two minutes neither of us say a thing. He can hear me smoking, but chooses to ignore it. My frenzied breath. I can hear the crackle of the fire. Only two reasons he would light a fire in the month of March. He expected me to come home, wanted to provide for me after a long day. Or, he feels left out and lonely knowing I could take a while.

"If I'm asleep when you come back, wake me up."

"Why would I do that?"

"Just do it, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, John."

The pub is old, dusty wood and dim on the inside, lights in certain spots and none in others. Smoke hangs in the air like something I could wrap my hands around. My feverish eyes leave nothing untouched and I spot him, far back in the corner, laughing with a few other men. He is sprawled out like a king in the booth, too involved in his pint and friends to notice me. With stealth and precision I relax my demeanor enough to blend in. I walk up to the bar and order a double shot and my own pint. The shot goes down quick like fire, hits my empty stomach with purpose. Almost immediately I feel warm. The pint is more of a decoy, but it's gone in twenty minutes and I order another. Laughter and jovial shouts rise above the Celtic rock music coming from the speakers above me. I am sitting in a wooden chair far across the pub smoking and watching him. He still appears not to have noticed me, wrapped up with these men. For nearly two hours I wait and watch the friends leave. Moran stays behind.

I set two full pints down on the booth table, slide one in front of him. By now the cocaine is wearing thin and the drink is rampant in my blood. He smiles up at me and I sit across from him. He is monstrous in size; taller than me and built like a machine gun. His hair is trimmed perfectly, gelled into place. His eyes glimmer in the dim light, and even with all the smoke between us, I can tell that he has both the appeal and charm to win over any one. That is why Jim chose him. He can sell, he can get away with things other people can't because of his appearance and demeanor. If only I knew what that was like.

"I haven't seen you in months!" He is referring to the pool, I assume. Must have been the one holding the remote. "What brings you?"

"You." I sip from my pint and hope he'll spill it all so I don't have to pry.

"Ah, me? Well, I'm flattered. But I really have nothing to offer."

"Don't be brash. Of course you do."

"Like?"

I am hoping he's warm enough to drop hints about Jim's plan. There's always the possibility that Jim keeps him in the dark, but it would be difficult to keep things from a man like this. Even sitting across from him I find myself willing to talk more than I need to. "Does he ever come out with you?"

"Who?"

"Your employer."

He gulps from the pint and lights up his own cigarette. He does indeed press the filter between his thumb and forefinger. "He doesn't come out with me much. Busy with his clients. It's my time off, anyway. Free to do what I please." He pulls off the cigarette and blows smoke in my face.

I begin asking him about his military career. He leans back against the hard back of the booth, shares with pride accounts of his deeds and also of his reckless pursuits. He is undoubtedly an expert at what he does. A sniper, long-term, also skilled with knives, swords, explosives, hand-to-hand. He can be as professional as he can be rogue. No wonder Jim finds him such an asset.

Just as he gets to the point in his trajectory—I've done nothing but prompt and listen—where he meets Jim for the first time, his mobile rings.

A bright look comes over him and he smiles. "No, no, won't be home for a while yet. I'm having some drinks with a friend." He laughs. "I say friend. Alright, boss, I'll make it back soon. Yea, yea, I'm fine, I'll get a cab." He looks over at me. "No, don't come in the car, I'll get a cab." He hangs up and puts the phone in his blazer pocket.

I say, "Past your curfew?"

"I'm working tomorrow. Best if I don't stay out all night."

"You live with him?"

We both stand up. He finishes his pint, sets it down on the table, hand still cupped around the glass mug. "What's it matter?"

"Doesn't." I shrug, finish my own pint and leave the mug on the table. I am standing surprisingly straight, considering the cocaine has completely worn by now. All I am is drunk.

"You live with yours," he says in defense.

"My what?"

"Your… your… whatever he is, I'm not even sure." He laughs, a low chuckle, menacing. His eyes scan me up and down. Leaning in slightly, hand still cupped around his empty mug, he says, "I can't wait to do it, you know. I can't wait to—"

Fork on the table top. Gripped in my fist. Swing around, dig it into his arm. Shouting. Glass pint clubs me against the skull, blood drips down over my ear. Side of my face slams against the table. Still holding the fork, claw his face with it. Pin him to the ground, beat his head against the floor. Leave him there. He is on my back, gets me in a choke hold and suddenly we are being torn apart, thrown out on the street. He hails a cab and spits at me.

I am shouting at him. I don't know what words.

He leans out the window, makes a motion with his hand- gunshot in the neck- and grins. The cab drives away and I am left in the silent, snowy street.

I stumble into the flat. It's completely dark. An orange fleck near me. I'm holding a lit cigarette. I pull off it. John darkened the flat purposefully, so that I would have to make noise upon entering. He knew I wouldn't wake him otherwise. He was right.

Folded over the desk, knock over papers, smoking, touching things. I hear his voice, shouting, a light is thrown on. His footsteps draw near me and I look over. His face is fear. I've done something he didn't expect. With my free hand I push myself off of the desk and fall backward, land on the floor. The cigarette is still in my hand and he rushes forward to take it, rushes into the kitchen and puts it out with water. He comes towards me. "What the hell have you done?"

I feel my face. Eye swollen, blood all over—some dried, some wet. Scarf tied around my head to stop the bleeding there. He kneels behind me, picks me up. I lean my weight fully against him and let him lead me into the bathroom. Immediately he begins to tend my wounds. He unbuttons my shirt, which shocks me. Then I realize it is only to check my vitals. His fingertips press against my ribs, my pale, thin skin, my abdomen. He tests my heartbeat, my breath. There is something startling about how natural it is. Ordinary, intimate.

Feeling warm and melancholy from the crash of cocaine and adrenaline, I begin to spill out the entire conversation I had with Moran, word for word. He removes the scarf from my head, cringes. He's only ever cared for me once, when Irene Adler had drugged me. And that was just bed rest and soup. This is different because he is required to touch me. I feel like a feline, leaning into my owner's hand.

That condescending tone. "You talked to Sebastian Moran?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"Alone—unarmed?"

I nod fervently; he stops me by holding my chin. He dabs about my swollen eye with a warm washcloth.

"And what did you say to make him attack you?"

"I attacked him."

"What?" He cleans my hair and scalp and begins to wrap gauze around my head. "You mean you successfully interrogated Jim Moriarty's personal assassin, and couldn't just walk away?"

"He insulted you!"

John stops and looks me square in the eye.

I add, "He said he can't wait until Jim lets him sink a bullet into the back of your neck."

All is silent. John's lips part slightly—he gets this look on his face whenever something suddenly makes sense. Then he commences his tending, carries me into my bedroom and sits me down. Without warning, he leans in and hugs me. Overcome by sensation I stand up and embrace him fully, my arms tight about his shoulders, and his around my insignificant waist. I rest the unblemished side of my face against his hair, breathe him in. His head against my chest, his ear against my drowning heart. We remain like this for quite some time.

But not long enough.

He lets me go and puts me into the bed, removes my shoes, tucks me in. Shuts out my light and leaves the door open a crack. "In case you need anything."

And for once, I don't question what I could need him for.


	5. Chapter 5

The sound of newspaper pages rustling. I wake. Open my eye—the other still tightly swollen shut—and roll over. John has pulled a chair into my room and is sitting plainly by my bed, one leg crossed over the other. He hears me move, lowers the newspaper and says, "There you are." Sets the newspaper down, gets up and sits on the edge of my bed, touches my face and checks me over.

My drapes are closed, the room is dim. Through the open bedroom door I see light pouring into the flat from a certain direction. It is late in the afternoon. "You let me sleep this long?"

He moves back and I sit up too fast, my head throbs. I feel nauseous and dizzy. He offers me a hand and helps me up. "You needed the rest."

I realize I am still fully dressed and begin to undo the buttons on my shirt. "You didn't go to work."

He puts a hand on his hip. "Not with you in this condition."

"Hm." I toss the shirt on the floor and continue to undress. He leaves, shuts my bedroom door. Why doesn't he stay to watch me? Why do I wish he would?

After I wash up and cast my robe about me I sit down in his chair, to make a statement. Pick up my violin and pluck it absently. The sun is so bright but I can't move to shut the drapes. John is fixing me a meal. The only sounds that occupy the flat are raindrops of violin notes and the scrape of spoon against a pan.

As he hands me a loaded plate he says, "I'm not that important, Sherlock."

The food is hot and flavorful and difficult to eat, but I do it. For him. I echo, "Not that important?"

"Not important enough for you to risk your life over. You could have—" he grimaces and doesn't say anything for a moment. He sits down across from me, in my chair, leans forward. "It frightened me last night, to see you hurt."

With my mouth half full an answer rushes out. "You're more than important enough to risk my life for, John. If the opportunity presented itself I would die to protect you. I wouldn't think twice about it, wouldn't even blink."

He looks at me, an expression I haven't seen before. Soft, maybe a bit confused. As if he can't accept the truth before him. What truth? He opens his mouth to speak, falls silent.

I furrow my brow as I look at him. Waiting. After eating half of what's on the plate I set it down. "Maybe I wasn't clear."

"What? No, it makes sense… I feel… I feel the same way about protecting you. I just never thought to tell you that. Didn't know how you'd take it."

"How is one supposed to take it, John?"

"Well, being protective, willing to risk your life for someone else, it's a sign of love."

"Love." The word falls out of my mouth as if I'm practicing pronouncing the first word in a foreign language.

"That," he points to me, to my reaction, "is why I never wanted to have this conversation."

"What conversation?"

"This one. The one about how we care for each other."

"We care for each other?"

"Yes, we do."

"And you think that caring means love?"

"Caring is a form of loving, yes."  
Our eyes meet. "You love me."

He smiles ruefully. In too deep. "Yes."

"Oh."

Silence fills the flat until I get up and kneel before him. I take his hands in mine and I say, "Thank you. For loving me."

I don't know if it is the right thing to say or if it means anything to him. I don't know how to make him happy or how to show him that I care about—that I _love _him. This is all I can offer.

He looks down at me, seemingly shocked by my advances. I try to look unafraid, but inside my pulse pounds against my thin veins. Then he pulls my hands towards him and kisses them, gently. "You're welcome."


End file.
